Daughters of the Nile by Stephanie Dray Read Free Book Online

prince in my arms and a princess at my side, the crowd cheers again for me, their fertile queen. I am Cleopatra of the royal House Ptolemy, the eighth of my name, but they call me mother of the realm and other, more divine titles. I blink against the bright sun, straining to find familiar faces in a sea of people who want me to be the vessel of a great goddess.
    “Come this way, Majesty,” Chryssa says, guiding me to the dais that has been made ready for us. I take my seat beside Juba upon a throne of ivory, inlaid with mother-of-pearl. Just beneath us, places of honor have been afforded to our children. Though my niece is not royalty, Pythia sits with us as if she were. Augustus took orphans into his family when I was a child; I now do the same, reminding myself that not everything I learned from the emperor was dark and twisted.
    Juba announces that this day of celebration is made possible by the grace of our patron, Augustus Caesar. Everyone chants, “Caesar! Divine Caesar!”
    The emperor is no god, but the people want him to be—just as they want me to deliver them salvation. So I must mouth his name with everyone else.
    Caesar, Caesar, Caesar.
    Our ministers make speeches to praise the gods for our new prince. A Greek choir sings a sweet tune. We’re treated to a poem by Crinagoras, commemorating the occasion. And then, mercifully, we’re free to make our way to the new royal library, an annex to our palace with stairs flanked by gilded marble lions that stand guard over our literary treasures.
    Portraits of Alexander the Great grace both sides of the entryway in vivid scarlet and gold, and the cavernous hall is made more inviting by numerous marble benches for scholars to sit upon and tables in niches at which they may read. Modeled after the Great Library of Alexandria, our library boasts three floors and three tiers of galleries overlooking a sunny central court. But the true wealth of this place may be counted in our scroll racks, where copies, and some precious originals, of the most important manuscripts can be found. As we marvel over mosaic floors and climb the stairs to the second-floor balcony, I wonder if it would be beneath my royal dignity to reach out and let my fingers play over my name engraved on the dedication plaque. I’m tempted, for I have a fondness for things that endure . . .
    The herald’s voice booms, shouting out the coming attractions. Beer and feasting. Dancers and poets. More exotic entertainment too. For the opening act, the crowd parts to reveal a man sitting on the lower level, surrounded by baskets and figs. He plays his pipe, and from the railing, I watch with a growing sense of dread as sinuous serpents rise up from the baskets at the sound of the music.
    Below me, six black Egyptian cobras dance on their tails, swaying.
    And all the joy of this day flees in an instant.
    I watch their scaled hoods spread wide like the uraeus on the crown of Egypt. Even from this height, I’m paralyzed by the sight of the asps, their forked tongues flickering out between deadly fangs. I don’t notice that I’m gripping the balustrade until my knuckles have gone white, all my effort concentrated upon not swooning and falling to my death.
    And I would swoon if I were not so filled with rage. Someone has arranged for this. Someone who knows what haunts me. Someone who wants to send me a message and make this occasion a moment of dread. The king must know it, for he calls down, “That’s enough. We’ve seen enough of the snake charmer!”
    There is commotion below, some upset at having displeased us. Then Chryssa snaps, “Who could think it a good idea to honor the daughter of Cleopatra by coaxing asps from baskets of figs?”
    The story the world tells of my mother’s suicide is that she cheated the emperor of his conquest by plunging her hand into a basket where a venomous serpent lay in wait. A legend only, some say, for the serpent was never found. But I was there. I brought her that